Now I want to be a banana plant, swinging in the wind, free from the knots of debt. The shards of dreams won’t wound me again. Ever. I’ll never be hunted by the loan sharks with serrated teeth. The weevil thought cannot perforate the corm of my peace. Away from the waves of suicide, I’ll live–listening to the Asian koel. I can decipher that song. Someone may drop nutritious love into my heart; my roots will be wet with kindness. My cigar leaf can grow straight into the light. The blossoming of altruism will come out, opening my skull– budding. My end is made serene- calm, by the cogitation of my fruitful e x i s t e n c e. First published in Native Skin.